


Thinking About You

by writingtoreachyou



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: Depression, Loneliness, M/M, thinking about what used to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7756900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingtoreachyou/pseuds/writingtoreachyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark is listening to Radiohead and experiences all signs of a severe depression - while not entirely sure what is happening with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thinking About You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [novemberhush](https://archiveofourown.org/users/novemberhush/gifts).



> This was written during a time when Radiohead was on my stereo 24/7. I wrote "Exit Music" first and this could almost be a sequel. Check out the song if you don't know it, it's gorgeous - but very sad.

_”I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo, what the hell am I doing here? I don’t belong here!”_   
Thom Yorke blasted out of the speakers and Mark smirked bitterly at the walking cliché he’d become. A pathetic scene of a teenage flick. One step closer to a Bridget Jones stunt of singing “Without You” in the local shopping mall.   
He pulled the blanket over his head and counted silently to ten. Maybe it would finally make the world disappear. Or him. Same difference. It’s not like anyone would care.  
“It’s not like anyone would care,” Mark scoffed. “Congratulations, Mark, you’re back to teenage angst at the age of 31.” 

When the world remained solidly the way it had always been the moment Mark reached “eleven”, he pushed the blanket angrily down and reached for the remote control to his stereo. “How Do You” suited his mood. Raging, irritating, loud.   
Then again.   
No.   
He wasn’t actually any of those things. He had no idea what it was that he felt but it was not anger. Yes, he was furious at himself for giving a damn. And irritated that it affected him this strongly. But the song was too loud. It rang in his ears and left him even edgier than he’d been just a minute ago.   
Somehow, he needed silence.   
But not complete silence. He couldn’t stand utter nonexistence of sounds because he’d have to fill the void and right now, he felt too powerless to actually do anything at all apart from lying in bed.   
He sighed deeply.   
It didn’t help at all. The tension remained.   
He tried counting again. This time he got to “eight” until he skipped to the next track.

 _”And the wise man say I don't want to hear your voice”_  
I don’t wanna hear your voice.  
I don’t wanna hear your voice.  
I don’t...  
Since when had Radiohead turned into his enemy? It was as if every single song was mocking him. And yet it was like an addiction: He couldn’t put on another record. He needed to torture himself.   
Mark pulled the blanket back up again and stared at the ceiling.   
He was a small man but never in his life had he felt _this_ small.   
Rejection after rejection.  
How much more could he possibly take? And what was this sensation that had begun its journey through his system, crawling up his skin?   
When he’d still been in Take That, he would sometimes lie in bed and cry. It had been foreign to him at first because most of the times there hadn’t been a cause, a reason that could have possibly provoked it but Mark had always blamed it on their tight schedule, being burnt out and stressed.  
What now? He was definitely not busy - hell, he wouldn’t mind having something to do during the days apart from writing songs and trying to get a record deal.

Mark bit his nails and stared at his phone that lay innocently on the nightstand. Usually, he kept it switched off but for the past few hours, he’d checked it so many times that he’d decided to leave it activated - that was probably better for the battery anyway. It was teasing him, whispering “No, I’m not gonna call you back,” and quite frankly: He probably wouldn’t be surprised. Rob had always hated phone calls; there was a reason why he didn’t own a mobile. He couldn’t focus, he didn’t want to feel the pressure of having to call somebody back he actually didn’t wanna talk to - Mark knew all that. But it had been way too many flipping years. So in a weak moment, he had actually used that number Rob had given him years back when they were still kind of seeing each other - as friends.   
Because.  
Just because.  
No particular reason.   
Or something.

_”Been thinking about you, your record's a hit  
Your eyes are on my wall, your teeth are over there  
But I'm still no-one, and you're now a star  
What do you care?”_

“Stop Whispering” had morphed devilishly into “Thinking About You” and Mark froze. Now he was absolutely positive that Radiohead were the spawn of Satan. Yes, he did know the record by heart, this band had been his favourite group forever but they were teasing him mercilessly right now, hitting him right where it hurt.   
For a second he considered skipping the track.  
But he didn’t.   
He put it on repeat.

Mark frowned and turned off the light, letting the guitar, the voice, the orchestra grasp him, shake him and not let him go. He wanted to cry.   
The tears never came.  
He clawed his hands into the bed sheets and held his breath for a moment before releasing it shakily. What was going on with him?   
He started to worry inwardly - even though he couldn’t quite admit it to himself just yet but a tiny voice inside told him that this was not normal. 

_”I’m stll no-one - and you’re now a star”_ \- That line burnt itself into his head. He wasn’t jealous, he felt inferior to Rob, something he never thought would happen. And it made him feel so very lonely. They used to be a team and even though Mark had always admired him, they were still equals - and treated each others like equals, too. Nowadays, it was always Mark contacting him.   
He didn’t mind at first.  
He didn’t mind for a long time.  
But then some tiny voice started whispering in his ear “He thinks you’re a loser.” - Mark fought that one.  
“He has no time for you, you’re a burden on him.” - Mark blinked it away.  
“He’s forgotten about you.” - He stumbled.  
“He doesn’t love you anymore.” - And fell.

_”Been thinking about you, and there's no rest  
Shit, I still love you, still see you in bed  
But I'm playing with myself, and what do you care  
When the other men are far, far better”_

“Markie, don’t be daft, you’re a fucking stunner, mate!”   
That’s what Rob had said in the beginning when they were still going out to chat up girls. Always the insecure one, Mark had fought issues about his height, his lack of muscles and his gay appearance. And ladies man Mister Robbie Williams had decided to teach him a thing or two about flirting and girls.   
What Rob didn’t know was that in reality, the only reason he’d asked for Rob’s advice was to be showered with affection by the other boy. Because Rob would mime the girl that Mark tried to chat up and no matter how silly he behaved, it still gave Mark a warm feeling inside. When Rob would bash his eyelids at him, he simply ignored that it was all a game and in his little dream world, they would end up in bed.  
They had ended up in bed.  
Not only once.  
Not only twice.

Mark held his stomach because the sudden burn in his guts took him by surprise. He rubbed it gently and took a deep breath, cursing himself to have brought up those memories again. They would never be an item. Rob could do way better than him. And even though Mark had been in love with Rob ever since he could remember, he had to accept that the other man would never feel the same way. Lust had taken over while reason had fallen by the wayside and even though Rob had moaned his name hoarsely, this “Markie” could have been anybody. Even in those moments, Mark had been painfully aware of that fact but more often than not, he’d been able to push it away far enough to pretend he didn’t know. Robbie Williams had been a gentle lover when it’d come to Mark, more considerate and loving than he’d been with any of the girls he had shagged in their shared hotel room. But Mark had been so painfully inexperienced and tense, he had screwed it up so many times. And worst of all: His feelings had gotten in the way. He had become clingy.   
Be clingy with Robbie Williams and he’s very likely to push you away.  
So Rob had moved on. 

_”I've been thinking about you, so how can you sleep  
These people aren't your friends, they're paid to kiss your feet  
But they don't know what I know, and why should you care  
When I'm not there”_

When exactly had he become this thin?   
The room was spinning when Mark was standing in front of the mirror now - a pretty good sign that he had spent too much time in the same position.   
The day was almost over and this indescribable pressure on his chest was still there. Maybe he should consult somebody about it, maybe it was something physical.   
Mark didn’t know.   
And quite honestly didn’t care either.  
Last time he had seen Rob, his friend had been in quite a state. Had called everybody he knew names and laughed it off consequently. Before his second rehab.   
How had it come to this?   
He should have been there. Back in the days.  
He should have taken him to his place when they’d returned from their tours and Rob had stayed in hotels.  
Why had he stopped caring?  
To stop himself from being hurt? Because Rob hadn’t loved him back? How very selfish of him!   
Instead, he had found himself those kind of people that pretended to care. When all they had really cared about was Rob’s money.   
Somewhere in the back of his head, he’d stored a conversation with Jason. When everything had started to fall apart and the older boy had told him “No worries, give him a few months and he’ll land back on his feet.”.   
Mark should have known better. Out of all people.  
Instead of landing on his feet, Rob had crashed.  
And all Mark had done was watch. 

Mark looked into his eyes and he hated what he saw.  
That wasn’t him. That wasn’t how he wanted to be.   
Rob wouldn’t call. And he had to finally move on.  
He was back in 1995 now. Back to his past, reliving the guilt, reliving the fear of being left behind and reliving the eternal feeling of not being worth it. Of just being put into this band by some weird mistake and someday somebody would realise that he was an impostor and kick him out - something that Nigel had kept on repeating anyway. The fear of him being right to say those things.  
Something inside him had broken to pieces back in the days and he realised just now to which extent.   
“Mark, you are alright,” he tried telling the person staring back at him with dark bags under his eyes.  
He tried to smile - somebody had told him that you could trick your body into believing you’re happy by doing that.  
It failed.  
He frowned at himself and mumbled “Get a grip, Owen”.   
Nothing.  
Numb.  
And still not able to cry one single tear. Maybe it would actually help.

When the phone rang, it took Mark a moment to realise that it wasn’t just white noise in his head. He stared at the appliance and took it into his shaky hands, realising that it was an American number. Mark pressed the green button and put the mobile to his ear, being so nervous that he forgot to speak.   
“Mark, are you there?”   
Rob’s voice was instantly familiar and because Mark was very defenseless, it got straight through to him.   
“Rob?” he asked a lot quieter than intended and added a bit louder “Yeah, it’s me...”  
“Josie told me you called, mate. Could hardly believe her!” He sounded happy, Mark noticed.  
“Thought I’d give my famous friend a call,” Mark heard himself say. He sounded a lot more confident than he felt now.  
“It’s been years, mate, can you believe it?”  
Actually, Mark could. He felt old. And didn’t quite know what to say now. Maybe calling had been a stupid idea in the first place, what if they had nothing left in common?  
“Markie, I think I lost you - are you still there?” Rob asked after another moment of silence.  
“Eh, yeah, sorry, bad connection,” Mark lied and bit his lip. He felt sick and suddenly every word was simply exhausting.  
And that’s when it all changed.   
Rob’s tone changed instantly, the excitement vanished and was replaced by something deep, something that Mark had felt forgotten “Mark. What’s wrong?”  
A shiver ran down his spine with such force that Mark had to sit down. His entire body was on high alert now, overwhelmed by the unexpected care on the other side of the line.   
“I...” Mark took a deep breath, he wasn’t strong enough for this. He didn’t want to start on how much he’d missed his voice, how much he missed him in his life and how little he coped these days. His eyes burnt now and he realised that he actually finally had tears in his eyes, even though he still couldn’t cry. 

_”All the things you got, you'll never need  
All the things you've got, I bled and I bleed to please you”_

“I just wanted to hear if you’re alright,” Mark mumbled barely audible. “Because I had the feeling you might not be...”  
He took a deep breath and tried to fight the turmoil in his chest, closed his eyes and experienced forceful waves of emotions wash over him now. It scared the shit out of him but he tried his best to stay calm.   
“Markie, I’m okay. ...but you are not. You are far from it, actually. I can tell - so stop this stupid game you’re playing right now. Did you call me because you need me?” Rob asked with true concern and expected an honest answer.  
“Yeah...” was all that Mark could say, it was a mere whisper. He knew how ridiculous that sounded, they hadn’t been in touch for years.  
“Stay right there. I’ll book a flight...” Rob replied seriously.  
“No, no, don’t...” Mark protested weakly, all strength had been sucked right out of him.  
“Yes. I’m on my way,” the other man answered calmly, “I should have been in touch more...”  
“Don’t do this because you feel guilty,” Mark added.  
“I do this because I love you and you need me,” Rob said so gently that the first tears started running down his face. Another fucking cliché - but one that he was willing to embrace.


End file.
